the battle of agincourt
by the devil's waitress
Summary: england fights during the hundred years war as a long bowman, gets captured, and france punishes him. warning: gore.


The battle of agincourt

england fights during the hundred years war as a long bowman, gets captured, and france punishes him. warning: gore.

(alternate title: sympathy for the devil)

Screams, screams were all Arthur could hear around him, screams and that disgusting language. That disgusting language that was full of malice and harassment and defiance and pure hatred – _French_. The piercing screams of his fellow longbow men experiencing agony of the worst kind penetrated his ear drums in the worst way.

The longbows and any remaining arrows were thrown in a pile near the stone threshold, next to a few armored members of the French cavalry. Standing around were a few more members of the cavalry, the king, Charles, and Francis, unfortunately. Arthur had hoped that Francis would have been skewed in his unholy heart by a knight or two, maybe even an arrow.

"Please, God, and King, aid my archers and my knights during this trial – " Arthur prayed, bowing his head. He kneeled in a line of others, whispering to himself until a metal foot kicked him in the ribs, and Arthur hissed, looking up with glaring eyes.

"Francis, by God, I pray you are boiled. "

Francis stared at the other coldly, anticipating the moment Arthur would twist in pain, the moment he would see the mighty Albion of legend crumble under a filthy sword.

"I pray you see the errors of your unholy, wicked, ways," Francis spat back, forcing himself to speak English. He kneeled down to Arthur's level, taking his chin in hand, squeezing, watching Arthur's eyes widen with – "You are afraid," Francis said, throwing his chin to the side afterwards, "and you should be."

The poor man next to Arthur falls to the floor and writhes in agony, he cannot even let out a scream, for his throat is too dry and he is too speechless. Blood from the other Englishmen around Arthur pools around him, and he seems a bit green-faced within a moment, his stomach threatening to dispose its waste.

In what seems like less than a moment, three men surround Arthur and hoist him up, and Arthur fights back tiredly. One of the men doesn't waste any time to punch Arthur in the face, another one kicking him in the knee. Arthur buckles, going to his knees, and simply falls over, blood pouring from his nose while he lies on the stone ground. It wasn't fair for Arthur because he had just spent a whole battle, fighting and fighting and fightingfightingfighting and how was anyone else still alive and breathing and conscious? How did they find the breath to just kick him to the ground like that? Arthur ponders – a mistake on his part when one of the men seizes his right arm and a wraps his pudgy sausage fingers around his filthy dagger.

"Fr-Francis?"

Francis looks at England from the strands of hair that have fallen in his face and scowls, kneeling down once again for a more morbid cause. He nods to the men holding England down and Arthur doesn't understand what is happening why is Francis doing that what could he possibly be oh my god please henry please – Arthur is howling and writhing like the man before him. The dagger digs into Arthur's timeless flesh, through bone and all. His index finger drops off, and the victim is huffing and puffing and sobbing most of all.

For Arthur's middle finger they do the same, holding him down with more vigor and strength than before. England arches his back, tries using his elbows as a means to pick himself off the floor but it doesn't work and his sobs wrack his body recklessly and he falls to floor with the help of Francis' friends.

Francis saws even harder this time to make the process faster, and stands when the deed is done. The image on the floor next to his feet is ingrained in his mind, forever: Arthur, no, England – sobbing, crying, screaming on the floor. Those green eyes are red with tears and exhaustion, his face twisted into an expression of shock and pain. His feet pulled up to his chest, his hair caked with the blood of the French, and even his own angular face is dirty with dirt and mud and smeared sweet and more blood. Where his index and his middle finger was, is just pouring with blood and England's screams become louder and even more agonizing. Francis questions himself – Did he really want this? Was it really worth cutting off England's fingers?

The answer is yes. Nothing is fair in love and war, and Francis doesn't care if England won't be able to serve in his military – something equally horrible will probably happen to France in a few years, anyway. England will continue on and eventually cross that bridge.

France actually relishes times like these, because it's very rarely he gets to strip England of his sanity and his power.


End file.
